After a long day's work Johnlock one-shot
by SundayDutchess
Summary: John comes home after a long day's work. Mature!


John sighed loudly, louder than vital, but made sure Sherlock heard him. He set down his bag and made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He liked a cuppa after a long day of hard work at the hospital. It was supposed to be mundane, and compared to war, it was, but it wasn't for lazy people. John hadn't slept much last night because of… Well, because of Sherlock. That says enough. Sherlock was bored, and he took it out on John. Or rather, John's arse.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock's disinterested voice sounded from the couch in the living room. He probably hadn't even moved all day. He had been lying there since five am this morning. He lay in the exact same spot as John had left him. Good, Sherlock had found his tongue. This was probably the most response he was going to get from Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't interested in his day, he just felt this tiny bit of responsibility asking after John's mood, or rather health.

"Tired. Bored. Cranky." John told him. Sherlock merely snorted.

"You could try to be a bit more attentive, you know?"

"How?" Sherlock called. When John turned his head to the living room, Sherlock lay there, one leg sprawled over the backrest, other over the armrest, head on their union jack pillow, on hand held his phone, the other was placed somewhere John couldn't see, as Sherlock had adjusted that arm to cover his eyes in his elbow. Probably he thought there was far too much light in the already dim room.

"Get up, for instance. Ask me how my day was. Be interested in me. I don't know, give me a foot rub or something…" John sighed exasperatedly.

"Foot… rub?" Sherlock snorted. "What for? Sore feet? You and I both know that repeated circular movements on the feet do stimulate the bloodstream, but it will do no good for the skin. I suspect the skin is the most sensitive, or painful, therefore, pointless."

John sighed again.

"What now?" Sherlock asked him again.

"Nothing."

"There's always something when you sigh so loudly I can hear it in the living room. Tell me what's wrong."

"You."

"What's wrong? There's something wrong, John."

"Oh, you deduced that, didn't you? Good deduction, couldn't have figured that out myself." John spat.

Sherlock swung his legs of the couch and made his way to the kitchen, stepping over various objects which had no use lying on the floor.

"Come here, John." Sherlock ordered. John slumped into his arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" Sherlock whispered.

"A woman, today, in the office. She came for her daughter, she thought her daughter had measles. Instead, I noticed a black spot on her neck. She thought it was a mole, but it turned out to be cancer. Terminally. Conveniently placed over an artery, impossible for surgery."

"How old was she?"

"About thirty…" John in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock squeezed him tight. Although is never affected him, death, grief, illness, the way of life, it did seem to hurt John badly, every time. John had to be used to it by now, but apparently, he had chosen not to. John had chosen to stay sensitive, no matter how bad it got, he would get emotionally involved. He believed that was the right thing to do, to be a good doctor. A doctor who doesn't care about his patients will not go to the ends of the earth trying to cure them. And John would. For each and every one of them.

"Oh John." He breathed into John's short, seemingly golden, soft, velvet-soft hair.

John hung numbly in his arms. Tears didn't fall, he just felt empty. So helpless.

Sherlock decided to help him. In fact, he was determined to cheer John up. Something that rarely happened. Their relationship was… interesting. To say the least. Sometimes, they ignored each other. Sometimes, well, most of the times, they shagged each other senseless. But they never really got the hang of this romance thing.

"Come here, and I'll give you the best foot rub ever. I will blow your mind!" Sherlock cheered. John merely stared at him, unconvinced. Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept John off his feet, holding him against his chest, which was only covered by a white, stained T shirt, and his bathrobe hanging loosely from his shoulders. He held John like he'd seen in the movies he'd watched when he absolutely had nothing better to do. When John was out. He swept John up like the groom swept the bride off her feet.

"Sherlock! Put me down!" John squealed. Sherlock knew John didn't really want him to, so he carried John's heavy, toned body to the sofa, placing him gently in the corner, placing himself on the other end of the sofa, taking John's feet in his lap. John wriggled his shoulders between the pillows, creating a little, comfortable niche for himself. He wriggled his toes in excitement, a big grin never leaving his face.

Sherlock's violin-trained fingers moved swiftly over John's feet, sending shivers through his body. The shivers ran along his legs, twirling around like drops of liquid, along his upper legs, past his crotch, leaving visible traces there, through his stomach, leaving butterflies, then to his upper chest, erecting his nipples, through his organs, making his heart beat faster. To his neck, to his head, causing him the inability to speak. The inability to think. Unable to do anything but to relax and succumb to Sherlock. To submit himself to him. Like presenting his body, his soul and his heart on a silver platter, apple stuffed in his mouth. God, that sounded (partly) philosophic. That was the effect Sherlock had on him. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

When Sherlock moved between his toes, John moaned loudly. He immediately slapped his hand across his mouth in embarrassment, but Sherlock continued, undisturbed, although an evil smirk crept across his face.

Sherlock then used his palms and circled them on his feet. John shuddered violently. Sherlock's smirk only grew wider. Then Sherlock eyed his crotch. It took John a moment to see what Sherlock was staring at. Oh, right. His bulging erection. Then Sherlock gazed into John's eyes, looking satisfied.

"Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault." John defended himself.

"But Johnny, you asked me to do it." Sherlock said innocently.

"Don't 'Johnny' me. I was a bloody soldi- AH!" John moaned as Sherlock hit his sensitive spot.

"Oh, let's investigate this a little more, Johnny."

"No, n-GYAH!" John moaned again. He flushed with embarrassment.

"Well, well, well, look at the poor soldier, disarmed by a consulting detective." Sherlock cooed. John squeezed his eyes shot, not able to take the sensation any longer. Against all odds, he pulled his feet away.

"Ah, no, Johnny. Bad boy." Sherlock slapped his feet, hard, at the soles. It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable. John lay them in Sherlock's lap again.

"Good. Now, will you explain to me what this-" Sherlock pointed at John's erection. "is doing while I am working on your feet. Surely, this doesn't turn you on. You expose me to mature content, Johnny."

"I'm not- You said- But you-" John stuttered.

"Me what? Do I turn you on, Johnny?" Sherlock grinned viciously.

"No. Yes. Maybe. A bit."

"I'd say more than just a bit, Johnny. Look at you." Sherlock let go of John's feet. John regretted him pulling away and protesting for a moment, but it vanished when Sherlock positioned himself on top of John.

"Oh, Johnny. What am I going to do to you?" Sherlock let his hand stroke John's jaw. John swallowed. Then Sherlock slapped his hand across John's face. John looked at him, scared, confused, for just a moment. Then he protested.

"What was th-" Sherlock struck out again.

"Hey!" John called. Then his instincts kicked in. He wriggled and pushed and shoved and kicked to get out of Sherlock's grasp. Of course, Sherlock had foreseen this, and positioned himself so that it was near impossible for John to get out. Another slap, hard across his cheek.

"Don't fight, Johnny, or I'll fight back." Sherlock threatened. There was something about his voice that made John forget all of his useless attempts and listen to everything Sherlock had to say. Do everything Sherlock wanted him to do. Let Sherlock do things he would never have dreamt of. So John stayed still.

"Good boy." Sherlock rewarded his with a quick but deep kiss. John responded immediately to it, taking everything he could get.

"Ah, eager, aren't we? In for some fun?" Sherlock purred. John nodded vigorously.

"But Johnny, I know exactly what you want."

"What do I want?" John panted. He couldn't think clear, in fact, not at all.

"You want me. To do things to you. Things that have never been done to you." Sherlock breathed in his ear. John gasped. Sherlock fished a long string out his pocket. Upon tilting his eyes near to unnaturally, John could make out the silky shine of a tie. A tie. Sherlock didn't own ties, it was his own tie. He saw this coming. Sherlock had seen this coming. The bastard.

But John didn't have time to think this over. John's hands were pinned above his head, and now tied together with a tie. It probably cut off some main arteries, but John was far too distracted to care.

"Don't move them. I will punish you." Sherlock warned. John gulped.

Sherlock slowly, agonizingly slowly, unbuttoned John's blouse. Then reached over to the knife on the table he had used that afternoon to stab an imaginary person drawn on the wall. Now it served more useful purposes. Sherlock cut John's blouse with military precision on the seams. For later, when Molly sewed it back together, or Mrs. Hudson.

Now John lay exposed, sleeves still hanging around his arms. He didn't even notice them. Sherlock let the knife wander over his broad, muscular chest. It tickled John, arousing him even more. John stared into Sherlock's eyes. Sometimes, Sherlock would stare back into John's, continuing his movements without monitoring them. It was dangerous, and John could get cut any minute, any moment, and the danger excited him beyond limits. He moaned loudly and panted heavy.

"You won't even feel the pain." Sherlock grunted, then he launched himself forward and crashed their hips together. At the same time, the knife dug into John's skin, leaving a little drop of blood running down John's chest. John let his hands shoot forward, his tied hands in Sherlock's neck, pulling him towards him, extending his lips for distraction. But Sherlock pulled back, never once coming into contact with John's face. He freed himself of John's grasp.

"Bad, bad boy. I do believe I told you to keep them there, didn't I?" Sherlock spat. He raised his hand up high before letting it clash against John's skin, right where the knife had made it's mark.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, moaned. A combination, sounding utterly helpless. Sherlock grinned and let his hand collide with John's skin again, eliciting a loud gasp.

"Ssht, my love. Save it for later. You'll need your breath." Sherlock ordered him innocently. Sherlock set the knife down about ten centimetres under the previously made mark. He drew a little cross, setting his mark. Then, he put the point of the knife down and grinded his hips forward again. They both jerked forward, digging the knife into John's skin. Now, John had two identical, little slits interrupting the beautiful golden skin. It trickled down to the sides. John struggled to keep his hands above his hand. It would be so easy to give in to his carnal instincts, to hit Sherlock off him, but he didn't want to. Not really. He knew this was bad, but he would break down if this would stop. This was the thrill. This was the life he wanted to live. He wanted danger. He needed danger. He needed Sherlock.

"God!" He squealed.

"Ah, no, don't expect any favours of him right now, dearie. You can't rely on your faith right now, I will strip you off it. I will be your captain tonight. I will be your god. And you will agree with me." Sherlock stated. John knew he was supposed to roll his eyes at a comment like that, but it only enhanced the feeling. It only enhanced his need. His want.

Sherlock then undid his belt. He smirked at it, tugging it from John's pants. He folded it double, each hand on the two ends. He moved his hands together, making a circle, and pulled his hands apart with a loud CLACK! John's eyes widened with fear. He didn't dare move his hands.

"Some other time, love." Sherlock reassured him. "I won't hurt you. Have I hurt you?" He asked, his voice drenched with confidence. John eyed his cuts, then shook his head.

"Good." Sherlock nodded curtly. Then his long fingers moved their way around John's pants, not missing the ever growing bulge in John's pants, and unbuttoned his button, unzipped the zipper. John breathed audibly. Not as loudly as before, but not normal either. When Sherlock's hands came into contact with John's pride, even though it was still covered in the fabric of his briefs, John jerked upward, still holding his hands above his head.

Sherlock smirked when John fell back down. _John was learning his ways and means._

Sherlock got up from the couch and John panicked for a moment.

_He wasn't going to stop, was he?  
Had he had enough?  
Was he not good enough?  
Was Sherlock freaked out?  
Had he failed him?  
What was wrong?_

Oh.

Sherlock's fingers folded themselves around the edges of his trousers. He gave them a short, hard thug, enough to let them slide of John's legs. John's pride was now covered in only his red briefs. This was the sight Sherlock was aiming for. John at his mercy, tied up, but not completely. Naked, but not completely. Leaving him wanting more.

"Now, now, don't panic, Johnny boy. I won't leave you like this… Although…" Sherlock faked actually considering leaving his John unattended when his needs were this great. The actual thought had never crossed his mind.

"No!" John protested. Then he closed his mouth and emotionally covering his mouth with his hand. But he knew he couldn't. He **wouldn't** move his hands.

Now Sherlock sat at his feet again, massaging them more vigorously than before. Sending sparks right up his spine, his bulge aching under the seemingly thick fabric of his briefs.

Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. John dreaded the moments that would follow. Sherlock would keep teasing him. He wondered how long this would take. This teasing. He knew he couldn't take much more, much longer, but Sherlock could, and would, keep this up for another fifteen minutes.

A fit. A fit of rage. That was the closest thing resembling the actions of John right now.

John sat up straight in a second, repeating his move of before, earning the second slit in his body. He lay his bound hands in Sherlock's neck, but instead of screwing up, he quickly moved, exactly knowing what he was doing. He pulled Sherlock down, twisting, causing himself to land on top of Sherlock. He felt the adrenalin coursing through his body, and he grabbed the brims of Sherlock's jacket and shirt, both at once. He pulled them apart, ripping and tearing it off his body. It should've been hard, having tied hands, but surprisingly, it didn't even take much effort. It was clumsy, but efficient. John didn't bother to look at his face, knowing there would only be surprise and shock visible on it. The angelic skin was exposed, nice and wide. Sherlock's hands lay useless by his side. Then John pulled apart his pants, the top half not possible to be fixed any more. John pulled Sherlock's briefs down, then his own, and without even looking at Sherlock for permission, he pushed in two fingers, in Sherlock's tight arse. Sherlock moaned loudly. For the first time, John bothered to look at Sherlock. Sherlock's hands were scattered over the couch, one elbow over his eyes, the other over his mouth, moving, covering up.

"No." John ordered angry, extracting his fingers and pulling Sherlock's arms from his face. Then John went ahead. He forced himself immediately into Sherlock's tightness, in which he relished. He still held Sherlock's arms, now across his chest. Then, he was fed up with it. For real. He was taking revenge.

He pounded into Sherlock over, and over, each time filled with rage, the aggression growing each and every time. Sherlock moaned and grunted, and so did John. Sherlock might've grunted in pain, but John didn't pay attention to him. He deserved it. They both deserved it.

John hit Sherlock's prostate over and over again, feeling himself building up quickly. He glanced at Sherlock's erect cock, slapping against his stomach as he pounded himself into Sherlock. He released Sherlock's hands and moved his own against the shaft of Sherlock's pride and joy. Then he gripped it, held on tight and felt himself explode simultaneously with Sherlock. John collapsed onto Sherlock, Sherlock still penetrated, John's entire stomach and chest covered in Sherlock's semen. They lay there for a while, just like that. Uncomfortable to say the least, but perfect none the less.

"A damn good shag."


End file.
